Scars
by Explicitly Awesome
Summary: He still does it. Maybe it's just habit, maybe it's a reassurance - and hey, maybe Amelia doesn't notice. General fluffy kinda sadness.


It became a habit before he could realize what he was doing. It was an unconscious reflex; like breathing and blinking and hunting.

Wake up and she's still next to him? Press.

Laughing until your sides hurt with her? Press.

Pet your new dog? Press.

Falling in love? Press.

If Amelia noticed, she didn't say anything. She'd wrap her arms around him, kissing him softly. He'd return the gesture – but he couldn't help but press his thumb into the palm of his hand.

It had been over a year since he'd last seen Lucifer, but that nagging piece of his brain (that sounded suspiciously like his father) told him over and over "you don't know what's out there, you don't have Dean to protect you anymore."

Over the year the voice's taunts became shorter and shorter.

"You don't have Dean to protect you anymore."

"You don't have Dean."

"Dean."

Until it faded for good, but he still pressed his scar – just in case. He wondered if she could hear his heart skip when she laid her head on his chest. He tried to subtly press his scar – a quick pound of fear that she would disappear in a buzz of static and he would wake up to sadistic laughter and a much colder and taller body instead of hers.

His breathing would even out when he pressed down hard – and she was still there.

He knew he couldn't be conspicuous forever, though. Amelia didn't notice until, of course, she did.

It was innocent at first, a curious, "What happened to your hand?" over dinner. He just brushed it away, saying, "I fell on some glass and sliced it up pretty bad about a year ago."

It was true enough and she accepted it. Of course, knowing the scar was there seemed to make her more alert to it.

She was wondering aloud, "You get this tense look before you press on that scar, and then you relax – what is it, a mood reset button?"

He wanted to tell her, he wanted to hold her and spill every secret he'd ever kept. But he didn't. He just laughed and said it helped him focus a little better.

Their first fight was about his gun. She didn't even know he knew how to use one until she found it under the seat of the Impala.

She screamed and cried and questioned. Sam showed her all the weapons he still kept in the car, Ruby's knife and a couple of guns. When she asked why, he just told her they were for protection.

She asked from what.

Sam put the guns and the knife back in the car and guided his girlfriend to their house; with a promise that he'll tell her everything she needs to know. He sat across from her, cup of coffee steaming between his hands, a mug of tea in hers.

"A couple years ago, something happened to me – something bad."

She wanted to ask what – but his agonized look stopped her.

"I can't tell you where, or why or even how – but it was torture. Literally. For about a year and a half, I was in Hell. Knives and fire and all that good stuff." He gave a stressed laugh, fingertips toying at the edge of his scar.

"An old friend saved me and took me back to my brother. He patched me up and I blacked out. A whole year and a half was gone from my memory, it was repressed – but if I did ever remember what happened, it could have broken me apart. The power of the _memory _of what happened to me, some…experts… said that it could have left me insane or paralyzed or even killed me."

Tears were welling in Amelia's eyes, the hand grasping her cup with white knuckles, part of Sam wanted to stop, to tell her everything was okay and move on – but it wasn't fair to her, or him.

"I should have known I couldn't manage forgetting, so when that wall came down – well, when I remembered everything that happened to me, I hallucinated. He was there, telling me I was still in the Cage with him, this was his newest torture – he was going to make everything seem better and take it away from me. I couldn't tell what was real and what was my imagination."

"The scar," she whispered. He nodded.

"I really did fall onto glass – and my brother stitched it up and showed me. The wound was real, the pain was real. And those hallucinations were lies, they told lies. If I wasn't sure what I was seeing was real, I could press onto the wound – or when it healed the scar – and the hallucinations would fizzle away and just leave me alone for a while. They went away permanently over a year ago, but sometimes I still think…"

He cleared his throat and continued, "I need protection from the things that had me before, especially since Dean's…gone – and I press the scar still because you seem too good to be real, Amelia, I keep thinking that you're so amazing that maybe you're my imagination because my real life sucks."

His coffee was cold and forgotten. Her tea was pushed aside as she threw herself at him. Arms wrapped around her neck and tears searing his skin she whispered, "I'm real, I'm here." Over and over against him. He buried his hands in her hair and held her closer.

He left less than a month later.

Amelia didn't cry or curse him for abandoning her in the night with no goodbye. She just watched and a warm ball of comfort wrapped itself around the weight of despair and loss in her stomach.

After all, she was vet – and she knew that sometimes, after a wounded animal heals, you have to release it back into the wild.


End file.
